Editors Note. Joanne Jordan was one of the first residents at the Monastery in 1982. This piece is an excerpt from her biography which is to be published next year.

When I was sixty-two years old, a friend from my Hindu days called to tell me about Zen Buddhism, saying that Zen had improved her meditation and she thought I would really enjoy going to a Zen Center. She suggested a center located in the Catskills in New York State. Without hesitating, I contacted the Monastery and discovered they had a four-day meditation period. I scheduled my reservations for four days prior to New Years Eve. I left by train for New York City on Christmas Day and took a bus from there to the Monastery. I had been told to bring lots of warm clothes, and my bag was heavy as lead.

After a few long, eager hours, the bus pulled up in front of a rough wooden sign: Zen Arts Center. When I descended from the bus, it was freezing and a blustery wind chilled me to the bone. I could barely see up a long stone walk, but much to my surprise, looming ahead was a Swiss chalet. Gasping from the wind, I trudged along the walk and up the steps, dragging my heavy bag. Through the snow I could just see the outlines of beautiful, dark, weather-beaten siding and the deep sloping roofs of the Monastery. The lower part of the building was solid, roughly-cut stone.

I was shaking visibly from the cold and desperately hoping someone would come to help me. Impatiently, I approached the carved wooden door and began to yell and whistle for someone. While waiting for an answer, I looked around at the desolate surroundings and realized there wasnt a sign of life anywhere. I wondered what would happen if no one were here. Was I so eager to get here that I had come too soon? Just then I noticed a triangle hanging by the door. With a freezing hand, I reached in my purse to find my keys, and using them, gave the metal triangle several loud clangs. Finally the door opened. There stood a slight, pixie-faced, shaven-headed fellow grinning from ear to ear. He greeted me warmly and invited me inside. Thank God! My nose was about to fall off. Regretfully, it didnt seem much warmer inside. Complainingly, I asked, "Dont you have any heat around here?" My heart sank as the monk explained with a twinkle in his eye that "for Zen it is kept quite cold intentionally to keep us awake and alert." Reassuringly he added, "Youll get used to it like everyone else." I thought, Me? Get used to the cold? Youve got to be kidding. I said, "No way..." as I stomped up the stairs along a damp, dark hallway. I wondered what on earth I had gotten myself into. Was it possible to get hypothermia indoors?

He led me up four or five steps to a small landing where there was a tall, narrow window. On the window sill was a flat bowl filled with sand to hold incense sticks upright. He turned left, going up six or eight more steps. We entered a long hallway. To the right was the zendo (as he called it). To me, it looked the size of an airplane hangar. At the far end, a small, simple altar covered with a white cloth held a statue of Buddha with candles on either side. Massive, richly hand-hewn wood beams crisscrossing every ten feet or so supported an arched ceiling which soared two stories high.

There were narrow windows with small panes of glass about every four to six feet along each side wall of the zendo. Two rows of black mats, each with a large black pillow on top, were placed about four feet apart along the side walls. I marveled at the beautiful, highly polished pine floors which looked clean enough to eat on.

As we passed through the hall, I noticed this smiling monk clasp his hands together and give a quick bow as he turned toward the altar at the opposite end of the zendo. He told me to remain mindful and bow to Buddha every time I passed him. He opened a door to what would be my room for the next six days. It was furnished sparsely with a bed, dresser, and chest. A small rug rested on the dark, polished wood floor. Relieved and thankful, I spied a true treasure, a heater! Hope glimmered weakly. Maybe I could survive this unbearable cold after all. We passed a large window overlooking a snow-covered hillside. I could hear water running over rocks in a nearby creek. He placed my bag on a stool, motioning me to follow him for a grand tour of the Center. I would have preferred planting myself next to the heater to thaw out.

I learned that my room had the only private bath in the building. Apparently I was living in luxury. We walked along the hallway, entering another hallway where three bedrooms shared one bath. These rooms were for permanent, paying residents, and cost $500 per month. We turned back toward a brass gong hanging at the center of the hallway  this was used to summon residents at meal times. Walking between the hall and the zendo, after bowing to Buddha, we climbed up a very narrow stairway to the second floor. Here were several rooms with little or no furniture. It was obvious that the monks and working residents slept in sleeping bags or mattresses on the floor.

On the third floor, there was an endless maze of rooms. The floors were dark wood. The young people who slept here were not the neatest in the world; in fact, some of the rooms were a mess, with sleeping bags and clothes scattered over the floor. Having raised three teenagers myself, this didnt faze me. There were so many twists and turns in this maze of hallways that I dont think I could have found my way around up there alone. There was only one bath on each floor. With all of these students using one bath it must be a mad house in the early morning rush to the zendo. Those bathrooms were clogged or flooded several times during my brief stay.

We returned to the entrance in the main hall and from there descended more stairs to an office. On the left were two washers and two driers [in the current office supply closet behind the registrars desk]. There were three desks placed around the room with a few file cabinets.

Pumpkin Head, as Id taken to thinking of the pixie monk, led me on into the huge kitchen. There were deep sinks [no dishwasher]. Everything was washed by hand. They had a double six-foot freezer  so heavy the floor sagged under its weight, sinking down about two inches [at the location of the current food storage cabinets]. Vegetables were stored in a decrepit refrigerator. An ancient black double oven with an eight-burner restaurant range stove was opposite it on the far wall. In the center of the kitchen a ten by five foot chopping block table was the center of activity during meal preparation.

Leaving the kitchen through a large swinging door, we entered the dining area which was directly under the zendo and equally as large. I noticed there were two people huddled near the welcoming warmth of a black wood stove which stood near an immense stone fireplace. The fireplace was closed because if open, the draft from poorly weatherproofed doors created a veritable wind tunnel.

At the far end beside huge double doors which led outside there were racks holding several kimonos, jackets and coats. Snow boots were strewn unceremoniously on the floor. When we opened the doors to the outside a blast of cold air took my breath away, almost blowing me over. Catching my breath, I saw a circle of steps like an amphitheater stretching from one side of the building to the other leading up to ground level. At the top of the steps on the left was a gazebo made of wrought iron. I could imagine its beauty in the spring and summer nestled there among green rolling hills reaching out to the nearby woods.

Pumpkin Head pointed out Daidos cottage in the distance at the end of the driveway. Close by were the remains of a huge vegetable garden which supplied fresh food for summer and fall. This tour was fine and dandy, but now I wanted to get back to my warm room and sit in the glorious rocking chair I had eyeballed earlier. Pumpkin Head obligingly led me back to my room where I collapsed, taking a quick nap. How could I endure this intense cold?

Moving to the Zen Monastery

Fortunately, like hot coals down in my gut (as Zen describes it) I had a burning desire to experience more of Zen meditation. After the retreat was over, I wanted to return to the Monastery as quickly as possible.

I arrived home exhausted but exhilarated. I contacted Daido and begged and cajoled him to bend the rules and allow me to bring my two poodles, Lily and Daisy, along with me. I immediately contacted my realtor, instructing him to sell my condo. I placed an ad in the newspaper to rent my house, and in a matter of weeks, having completed my business, I was packed, and on the road, hauling a trailer full of furniture for my room at the Monastery. A moving van came for the rest of my belongings, which were to be stored in New York. This sudden move was still quite a traumatic shock for me and the dogs.

After a long, and seemingly slow car trip to upstate New York, I finally arrived at my new home, thinking I might be there for the rest of my life. All those wonderful, young people poured out of the building to help unload my car and trailer. I was weary from moving, to say the least, though I was a veteran mover by now and I had learned all the tricks to ease this arduous chore.

My bedroom and bath were in a little hall just past the zendo. This was a corner room, about fifteen feet square, with a window in both outside walls, and a tiny electric heater which I was ever so thankful for in the coming cold months. I shared the bath with two other women. We three were the only paying guests at that time. The rest were students on scholarship.

I talked Daido into allowing me to have a television set in my room, suggesting that I would turn it on only during rest periods and before curfew at night, setting the volume very low. He must have thought it would be good for me to relax watching television, since I didnt hang around with the young people. Ive always been a loner, and I was no different at this center. I was very comfortable with a partial private bath, a television, and my precious Lily and Daisy.

I found out much later that the students were making bets on how long I would stay. It seemed that every elderly person who had come there left within a week or so. They were betting on the wrong person, because I was determined to stay. Even though it was really a tough life, I felt much more at home here than with my friends in Virginia.

When I arrived here in the Catskills in February, it was still bitterly cold. The Buddhists dont pamper students in their monasteries. Daily, we reluctantly left our warm rooms to go into the temple at 4:30 a.m. A quick look at the thermometer at the end of the hall indicated that it was usually freezing or below. In the dining room hot coffee and tea were laid out for us. Drinking this before morning meditation still didnt warm us up very much. We sat in chairs and sofas around the huge black wood stove in the dining room trying to warm up a bit.

We always sat in the same places for meditation. Everyone blew into their cold hands to warm them, and warm steam spewed from our noses during meditation. Sometimes I felt as though my nose would freeze; so I wore a knit scarf over my face and my breath kept my face warm. However, the body warms up from hard concentration during deep meditation; it wasnt unusual for me to have perspiration rolling down my cheeks. Then, of course, walking between the sitting periods helped to get the circulation flowing. Soon I peeled off the army blanket and even a sweater as my concentration became deeper.

Very often, during the early morning sitting, we could hear snoring or labored breathing as someone went to sleep. They were awakened quickly by Daido, who sat facing us at the head of the zendo. He shouted the persons name to awaken them. Then, if the student dozed off again, which often happened, along came a monk with a stick to jolt the sleeping meditator.

Breakfast was such a satisfying meal, not only because we were hungry after being up for three hours, but it was usually hot cereal which was so warming and comforting. We sat around that wonderful wood stove and finally felt warm. The stove was kept burning twenty-four hours a day, and during the day, there were times when the room actually felt warm. Snow stayed on the ground all winter. I fell on some ice, damaging my knee. After this accident, I was excused from bowing which required deep knee bends. It seemed forever before the snow melted and we began to see signs of spring. When spring finally came, it was wonderful to look out at the gently rolling green hills covered with delicate blossoming trees and shrubs. Summer arrived  hotter than Hades. I dont tolerate heat as well as I did when I was younger, and my refuge was the dining room which was half below ground and quite cool. The fan I bought for my room didnt help much. Sweat steamed from my body while I was sitting in the zendo. In the early morning we could feel cool breezes and hear the sound of rushing water from the two streams nearby. To keep cool I wore as little as possible. I bought a gray Zen robe to wear during early sittings. I could wear my nighty underneath or sometimes, nothing at all.

After breakfast, we had about a half hour to rest, then a loud drum roll called us to work for the next two and a half hours. We met in the office downstairs to receive assignments for the day. Because I knew how to cook, I usually worked in the kitchen. I was unsuited for heavy work because of my back and knee problems. I dreaded mopping the huge floor every day after meals were over. I mended the black pillows we sat on; their seams were often ripped because people put stacks of them under their butts, to relieve the pain in their legs from sitting.

During the afternoon we had free time to do whatever we wished. We gathered in the dining room waiting for dinner which was always served buffet style. This was a light meal of soup, salad, and lots of bread. Sometimes we had cold cuts or the Sangha made hummus sandwiches. We were to eat lightly so the food would be digested before our 7:00 P.M. sitting, which ended around 9:00 P.M.. We chanted after each sitting. Afterwards, Daido would sometimes share words of wisdom, then we could ask questions. The candlelight from the altar made the room quite dark and restful. Everyone relaxed, comfortable on the pillows or lying down. I loved this part of the evening.

Then we retired to our rooms. A student came around to all the rooms at 10:00 P.M. ringing a little bell to let us know it was curfew. I rarely went to sleep that early, so I watched television until I fell asleep. Taking a nap in the afternoon made up for the early morning rising and my late-night television.

The five-day sesshins started every month with the evening sitting at 7:00 P.M.. With my chronic back pain, I dreaded the long hours of sitting. On an average day we sat for about six hours, but during sesshins we sat for at least nine hours. During these five days of sesshin, we werent allowed to talk or look at anyone. We looked down at the floor when passing each other. I liked this, as I didnt enjoy small talk.

After the five days passed, we resumed talking. Conversation flowed fast and furious. Everyone danced to the make-shift music of our Zen band, and we were all as high as kites. I bore the brunt of many jokes and I could hold my own in that department.

Along with the laughs and teasing, I loved the intrigue and numerous love affairs going on among the young ones. Mentally I made predictions as to how long each romance would last. I could anticipate when fighting and arguing would start, then the tears, and conversations followed during which I could tell one was trying to convince the other to make up. Soon I could tell they were ready for the break-up when I saw one getting chummy with someone else. Then the fun started all over again with a new set of characters.

After several months, I was actually beginning to enjoy this tough and uncomfortable life. During my work (while working we were not allowed to talk except to ask questions about chores), I discovered that even work periods in the kitchen were actually helping me. In deep concentration while working I sweated  beads of perspiration rolling down my face. I looked around at the others, and none of them were sweating. Though I never gave myself credit or recognized my spiritual growth, it was indeed starting to happen in many areas.

Joanne Jordan first came to ZMM in 1982. She previously had a career in television, appearing with such stars as Bob Hope, Burns and Allen, and Jimmy Durante. She appeared in movies, did live TV commercials, and hosted her own television show. She has had a lifelong interest in spiritual practice.